Tuck this in your docket
a poem for your pocket
a sonnet for your vest
or line of anapest
today in bits of paper
in literary caper
we raise a silent cry
against the plain and dry
and summon muses hence
with their accoutrements
metaphor and simile
rhythm light and nimble-y
poetry’s declaration
of determined preservation.
Happy Poem-In-Your-Pocket Day, dear reader!
If this be barn
I think to myself
the cows are milked
by gnome and elf.
Can such an otherworld
storybook mime
really exist
in this place and time?
If I tiptoe around
not touchin’, just lookin’
would someone say Kommen Sie
for warm apfelkuchen?
Would Goethe move over
the Grimm Brothers share?
Could I touch a past
so reverenced there?
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
The wing
is the thing —
humanity’s crux.
Yearning to fly,
we invented books.
The book sculpture above is part of a place named (wrongly, I hope) The Last Bookstore.
It is in downtown Los Angeles.
